


Love Post-It

by Avaya



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Depression, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Involuntary Celibacy, M/M, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8410981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avaya/pseuds/Avaya
Summary: Alluring messages trouble a luckless in love journalist.





	1. Untrue Declaration

**Author's Note:**

> This is VERY loosely based on a personal anecdote. Also I changed the title. The current is actually the original and I decided that I preferred it.

_You’re beautiful_.

A simple nondescript phrase written in elegant calligraphy.

On a pink post-it note.

Found beneath the left windshield wiper of his Ford Bronco.

That rested in the underground lot of the _Daily Planet_.

Clark Kent’s lips downturned as he gingerly plucked it out, scanning the individuals walking around Metropolis for anyone ill-suited to be around the business district, studying the _Daily Planet_ shrewdly, or perhaps an elevated heart-rate that could be construed as desire.

It was something unexpected as he finished yet another grueling workday. After reading the line and _rereading_ it to ensure that what it said wasn’t a trick of his eyes or he’d passed over a _not_ , he pondered the message.

At first, he’d thought they spoke of his car. But he didn’t consider his beat-up ’95 washed-out blue Bronco a classic.

Then he’d thought that it was some Good Samaritan, endeavoring to brighten _someone’s_ day. That had made him feel better. Unfortunately, he noticed no other car in the packed underground lot bore the same message…or any at all.

The logical conclusion led to the fact that whoever it is spoke directly to _him_.

He stared at his reflection in his dirt-speckled mirror, frown deepening. He sported a boorish tan suit with a tie that had differing squares of red. Fixing his thick wire-frames that off-set his eyes, he noted that the only thing immaculate about his appearance was his hair. 

 _Clark Kent_  appeared grossly over-weight and his personality is docile. Due to his appearance and temperament, he is the utmost example of _unattractive_ in a society that aggressively pushed for anorexic models with zero imperfections and confident behavior.

Though _Superman_ is nothing like that, his true nature was not that of the hero. Clark Kent shared his ideals, but _that_ is who he truly is, even though he must hide an important part of himself. Yet how cruel is it for someone to single out someone who assuredly _is_ considered ugly?

How many other people had suffered through this?

Why would someone brutally toy with another’s affections?

He crumpled the note, thrusting his fist into his suit pocket harder than necessary, anger rising in him at someone’s disgusting attempt at a jest.

He wasn’t laughing. It wasn’t funny.

~*~*~*~

“I think it is.” Batman disagreed, a teasing smirk dancing on his face.

“Of course _you_ would.” Superman snorted, avoiding the piercing gaze of the cowled figure in favor of what was shown on the Bat Computer.

They were in the Bat Cave and Superman had just finished recanting the oddity that had soured his day. He sat atop the desk, legs dangling with the occasional swing, having finished his sweep of Metropolis. Batman hadn’t even started on Gotham yet.

“I don’t see what the problem is, Clark.” Batman responded, still focused on a dozen happenings while forking a piece of an egg white omelet into his mouth. “There are plenty of possibilities with multiple variables. It would be impossible to run each of them down and figure out the truth, even for the fastest man on Earth.”

Clark’s lips didn’t quirk at the joke. There is nothing that he personally found amusing about his current plight.

“With multiple competing theories, the simplest course of action is likely the best. Occam’s Razor.” Batman continued. “It’s less stressful to speculate that it’s a compliment rather than following any other prospects.”

“But it _isn’t_.” It came out harshly, filled with vitriol. He hadn’t meant for it to be spewed in such a way. He’d thought his voice tempered enough to be said casually.

Batman slowly turned his head, stilling his chewing before swallowing. Superman’s cheeks tinted, but he remained intensely interested on the illuminating screen.

“What do you mean?” Hesitant. Cautious. Just like him. Batman seemed to force the rest out. “Of course it is.”

“I’ve done nothing to deserve the praise when there are many others who do.” He begrudged softly, drudging up an excuse rather than admit the truth. “All meek little Clark does is write pieces for the _Daily Planet_. All Superman _is_ came from being born Kryptonian.”

“And no one can applaud Clark for blessing the readers with his amazing talent? Or Superman for using his powers for good?”

“They can.” He pouted, azures sliding to peer at Batman's face. _But no one does…at least, not in the way that I want._ “It’s just—I don’t know. If they’re speaking of my looks, then they’re shallow. If they’re speaking of my inner being, then what about my appearance? I’m not talking about Superman really. I’m talking about _Clark_. The complete individual.”

“What makes you think that they _aren’t_ speaking about your usual bumbling self along with your appearance?”

“Because _Clark_ isn’t _attractive_.” Superman groused out, scowl harsh enough to match Batman’s. _If he was, don’t you think he’d be noticed by now_? He had wanted to add so badly that knots twisted in his stomach.

Those brutal lenses seemed to seep into his soul as Batman gently set down his golden fork. They brought forth the whirling emotions he carefully kept hidden at bay, unleashing their fiery torrent to wash over his blue crystals.

“That’s not true.” Batman spoke lowly, his tone dark, lips carefully crafted into a thin line. He paused, as if wanting to say something more before relenting. “You…are.” His mouth clamped tightly then.

A breath of air pushed past Superman’s lips in the form of a sigh as anguish filled him. _Even_ you _Bruce have to struggle with a compliment to appease me_ whispered in his mind.

“Then why…” He started before the air in his throat cut off. Why wasn’t Clark Kent viewed as a potential relationship in this superficial society? Why didn’t anyone proposition Superman, who many women gushed at as alluring but did not care for anything long-term?

 _Why don’t_ you _want me, Bruce?_ He wished to say, tears stinging his eyes. He tried not to let any disappointment show. He thought if anyone, _Bruce Wayne_ would understand his position. Then again, it’s possible that he was the _wrong_ person to mention this.

A multi-billionaire wouldn’t be interested in an imaginably hefty and lowly journalist amidst the _Daily Planet_ he owned. Bruce wouldn’t even know he existed if he wasn’t Superman…and that made him feel even worse.

Because Superman is in love with Batman. Clumsy Clark is in love with Bawdy Bruce.

 _And wouldn’t Batman laugh at that._  

Batman waited for him to continue, half of his omelet left untouched due to his complete focus aimed at him.  

Even though a heavy weight deliberately crushed his chest with might that only Superman could impose, he forced out a smile. “You’re right, Bruce. Maybe I’ve been thinking too hard about it. It’s not like it’s a stalker. Someone could have gotten the wrong car or maybe it was someone else’s note so they put it on the first car they passed.”

He felt a little comforted by his words and even pushed out a laugh. Batman turned back to his computer, words softly reaching him.

“Infinite possibilities.”


	2. Remorseful Confession

“I’d like to be like you too, Clark.” Lois laughed, delicately throwing her dark hair behind her shoulders.

It has been a week since the distressing incident that Clark decided to dismiss from his mind. His best friend is right: there were numerous avenues that could have resulted in what happened and stressing over it would bring nothing to fruition. He could hypothesize as much as he wished, but it would be favorable to go with the easiest solution and most likely scenario...though he didn't accept.

Still it was a single happenstance that vanished as time elasped.

Except they had both just entered their shared office to find everything in the room almost as they had left it the night before. The only oddity is a large bouquet of different colored roses adorning Clark’s desk. Before he could protest that it was _definitely_ on the wrong mahogany table, he read a red post-it note pasted to the ornate blossoms.

_I wish I could be like you, Clark._

They stood before it as Clark gaped and Lois chuckled, Clark holding a hot coffee in a Styrofoam cup with one hand, clenching the handle of his worn out briefcase in the other. A shiver went through him, strangely pleasant and yet filled with trepidation simultaneously. He didn’t ruminate on _why_ he felt either.

This isn’t an isolated incident then. Whoever this person is knew his place of work, car, and name. They knew _him_. It isn't a harrowing thought. A potential stalker could be watching him and he’d be able to lose him in the blink of an eye. Still, it is unsettling to say the least.

He’d have to be careful as Superman.

The corners of his mouth drooped as he threw an offending glance at Lois’ desk, her pile of rainbow colored post-its peeking around her purple mesh pen cup. She widened her eyes and gave off another giggle.

“Not me, Clark. You know that I’d tell you instead of pulling a stunt like this.”

“Not a romantic then, Lois?” He breathed a little easier at her confession. Turning down a woman like Lois wouldn’t have been easy, especially since he wouldn’t know how to handle it. Turning back to the rosy display, he sifted through his emotions.

The present would be flattering, adoring almost, if the first note hadn’t churned him up so badly, reminding him of someone he would never get.

Perchance it's meant to be a rude comment? Was the message signifying Clark’s loneliness--the lack of dates, men, and sex--so flowers were sent to disgrace him? A flash of animosity rose through him.

“I can be.” Lois neared the arrangement, sifting through it for anything else revealing. She eventually found what she sought on the bottom of the crystal vase, whistling at her find. “But certainly not like this. _Someone_ has good tastes. It’s from Ajun Flora, the expensive floral boutique in New York.”

New York. Could the perpetrator be from there? He ruminated on who he knew that called the Big Apple their abode. Immediately rejecting his sources—who did not know him so intimately—he lingered on the few friends who inhabited the city.

Lois’ eyes narrowed at him as Clark’s own glossed over, setting down the vase gently before crossing her arms over her chest.

“You holding out on me, Kent?" She narrowed her eyes as her mouth pinched together. "I thought we were partners. Who’s sending you thousand dollar flowers? Why don’t I know about this person that you’re hiding? How come I don't know that Smallville is branching out?”

“I don’t know.” He shot his cuffs. “I don’t think it could be—I mean it _may_ be the same person who put the _You’re beautiful_ under my wiper.”

“You never told me about this.” Lois frowned and listened as Clark recanted his tale. She would immediately crucify him with questions to sate her thirst for intimate knowledge that she rightly had no business to know. But this was Clark…a good friend of hers. She wanted to ensure he would be safe.

Clark didn’t tell her that he had saved the sheet or that he looked at it every day because it is a nice thought for someone to have of him. Though someone could be uplifting him merely to throw crushing heartache his way, there is still hope that they could not be.

 _Hope can be dangerous._ His best friend’s melancholic words ringed in mind. _It can lead to grand delusions with no basis in reality._

How comforting, Bruce.

By the end of it, Lois is smiling again. “Life sure would be easier if more people were like you, Clark.”

“What do you mean?” Clark decided to respond to Lois rather than peruse his disheartening thoughts further. He went around the desk to occupy his chair, setting his briefcase and coffee on the desk _away_ from the gift. The assortment of blossoms obstructed her from his view. A fleeting thought made him wonder if it had been deliberate.

“Come on, Smallville.” She rolled her eyes as she perched upon his desk, nudging the flowers over in order to lean towards him. “You’re the kindest most big-hearted teddy bear that I’ve ever known. Your compassion knows no bounds and there isn’t a limit on your patience apparently. You’re charming, lovable, and the blush on your cheeks certainly adds to it.”

He _i_ _s_ blushing, very hard in fact. He’d received compliments from friends many times over and who wouldn’t be elated to hear one? But it stirred up the heavy feeling of loneliness that he quelled each day. She isn’t who he wanted to hear those from. They weren’t said in a way which told that the individual longed for him.

“That’s really—uh, nice, Lois.” Clark managed to get out as Lois scratched an area beneath her violet suit jacket. “But it’s not like people are fighting to date me.”

She pursed her magenta lips, tapping a well-manicured finger against her jaw in thought. “Well,” she began slowly. “It _could_ be because no one wants to taint you.”

Lois watched Clark’s eyebrows shoot up, a surprised and uncomprehending look in those dreamy baby blues. He tongued his lips gently which made her nod fervently, a hand on her hip as she snapped her fingers.

“Yeah. I’m betting that’s the reason.” She smiled, her heart racing at the _innocent_ face of Clark Kent. He is so demure, so modest. She could see why someone wanted to ravish him. His sex face must be _divine_ and something told her that he would be wild between crumpled sheets. There is something about him that made her want to pursue. But frumpy dumpy isn’t her type. So why in the hell is she so interested?

Lois scratched herself again, underneath the fabric this time. _Damn_ , she's itchy. Do this too often and someone would think she's a junkie, itching for her next fix.

“I don’t get it.” Clark pleasantly grimaced, not realizing the effect that it had on her as her breath hitched.

“Clark, you’re _pure_. We could sit here and have a philosophical argument on what is _pure_ and if anyone alive can attain it instead of working on Perry’s articles, but in my personal opinion, you are the closest damn thing to it. Not to mention that that would be boring. With me so far?”

“That pure is boring or that working on Perry’s articles isn’t on the agenda right now?”

Her smile widened. “ _That_ is what I’m talking about, Clark. You’re so…genuine.  You’re innocent. Not a snooze fest like covering Luthor’s corrupt political luncheon.”

Clark chuckled but nodded, leaning back in his chair while linking his arms. “Got it. Pure as Colombian cocaine. What’s the catch?”

“There _isn’t_ a catch. You’re thinking along the wrong trajectory. There are people who see someone so beautiful and want them, but know that they don’t deserve them or that that person would change if they were to date them. So they say nothing to the other person.”

The grin immediately fell off of Clark’s face as he became serious, jaw set as he worked over her words in her mind. Then he shook his head.

“Lois…that’s _sad_.” The pained smile she gave him wasn’t reassuring. “At the risk of being a hypocrite, if you really want someone, I think you should go after them.”

Her normally icy eyes flamed in interest. “ _Oh._ ” She inflected. “ _This_ sounds interesting. Why haven’t you gone after her yet?”

Clark let a coy smile play on his lips as he clasped his hands behind his head, rocking gently to and fro. He’d let her think that he didn’t desire men only. _She_ made the assumption.

He shrugged. “I doubt there’s any interest, Lois.”

“You never know.” She recanted in a sing-song voice, her body turning more in his direction.

“That’s true.” He mimicked before laughing. “Maybe I need to get the courage to ask instead of expecting the worst.”

“Best idea I’ve heard from you in a _long_ time.” She jested, rubbing along her arm in a manner that at first Clark had thought to be teasing, but turned out to be _soothing_. “You wouldn’t be running because—”

“No.” He immediately dissented. “I don’t think that I’m undeserving. I just think it’s unrequited.”

“Good.” She flashed a brilliant smile. “You’re not one to corrupt, Kansas. You’re one to _be_ corrupted. That’s what I’m thinking your secret admirer has in mind.” She tapped the note on his desk to emphasize her point, watching the rise in color take over his face. “She definitely wants to tear. You. Up. _Badly_.”

 _Not to mention a few others as well_. She thought as Clark quickly covered up his embarrassment by grabbing his coffee with both hands. He took a _long_ drink.

Lois held his gaze as she continued. “Honestly, I think she’s either one of two people in this case.” She knew Clark perked up to listen by the way he stiffened. “She prefers to take innocent nice men and make them absolutely _debauched_. Or she’s one of the people who thinks that she’s undeserving, yet decides to take the risk anyway.”

“Or a stalker. Or this is all some kind of elaborate elusive expensive prank. Not to mention there’s always a risk in dating and a chance of what you say happening, but it doesn’t mean that other people should settle for what they think they’re good enough. That’s one way to be _unhappy_.”

“For some people, the risk outweighs the benefits. It would tear them up inside if, say, they ended up with the person and then the person changed for the worst. It’s not worth it. She’s decided _you’re_ worth the risk. They’re beautiful by the way. You want them?”

Clark brandished his head, ignoring the way that his chest tightened before he shrugged it all off. He already tired of the conversation and mind-whirling possibilities. His mind dwelled on the laborious day ahead of him and he very much desired to forget this instance and the last. All they caused is heartache.

Curiosity led him to ask one more thing though as he stilled his chair to sit upright. Captured within his thoughts, he grasped his favorite fountain pen--a Pilot Metropolitan-- from the mountains in the cup and began to fiddle with it. The ink was low and soon to run out, but he loved the fit between his fingers and how it would make his messily scrawled notes pleasing. He couldn’t explain it, but he submitted better articles when he wrote with it.

“Why a _she_?”

Lois eliminated a little less than half of the population with her musings. Is it because she’s swept up in the stereotypical ramblings that society has held? Gender behavioral expectations? An assumption that only women would seek him out though not one had?

She shrugged, grabbing the beautiful assortment of roses before walking to her desk. “The writing is flowery, not to be punny, and it’s majorly attributed to females though men _can_ do it as well.”

Clark didn’t bring up the fact that emoticons are widely considered to be feminine in nature and yet they came into fruition by a _man_. _Generalization it is then_ , he thought as he tapped his Pilot against his lips.

She artfully set them down on the corner of her desk. “But I admit that the flowers confuse me. Women are given flowers by men for any number of reasons. It’s uncommon for it to be done the other way around since it isn’t usually customary in American society. Still think it’s a woman though. She _really_ likes you.”

“Times are changing. Women are definitely becoming more aggressive in the dating market.” Clark murmured as he leaned back in his chair again, eyes on the ceiling. His voice dropped an octave as he quoted his best friend, his want-to-be lover. “Infinite possibilities.”

Unwilling to let what she said go but knowing that they had to finish their work, he opened his mouth to ask for her notes on Lex Luthor’s political soiree when Lois gave a frustrated curse. His eyes immediately widened and flickered towards her as she unfastened her buttons to rip off her jacket.

“What in the hell…?” She gasped, backing away and eyeing the flowers mortified before they fell to her arms.

Clark was on his feet and around the table within seconds, watching a rash blemish creamy white skin before his eyes trailed to the flowers. “An allergic reaction?” He mumbled confused. “To _what_? I’ve seen you around roses many times.”

He remembered her being especially fond of Wayne Manor’s rose garden when they both had to cover an overnight black-tie event. They had slipped out to the maze of fauna gently frosted with early morning dew, perambulating about the grounds in the light of a full moon, discussing the information obtained from the guests. She had only mentioned the flowers briefly in passing as well as one in particular she could not be around.

“Orchids, you know that.” She snapped, though not meaning to. But her skin was _burning_ and the ointment she had left at her duplex. Luckily for her, she had a spare in her desk which Clark grabbed. She scrutinized the flowers intensely as if they were no longer objects of beauty, but biological weapons. “I don’t _see_ any though. Do me a favor, will you? Get _rid_ of them.”

“But they’re a gift—” He started as he reached her. The tube is snatched from his grasp before Clark could say anything more and Lois is out of the room within seconds.

Her behavior is eerily reminiscent of his whole life—being pushed over, told what to do, not taken seriously. _Of course_ he would have gotten them out of the office for her sake, but she wanted him to throw them out. She expected him to do what she ordered, because that is simply how he portrayed himself, who Clark Kent happens to be.

A pushover. Meek. Someone no one could love.

His eyes snapped shut. He was glad that no one could see the interminable hurt that dulled his usually bright blues. Or the self-loathing. Biting his lower lip and clenching his fists, he pushed every sensation down to oblivion.

The rising agony that made him want to cry out in pain.

The helplessness that enabled him to seek out the sole individual who would only renew the feeling.

Encroaching loneliness that swallowed the color in the world, dimming it to a sufferable limpid grey.

But…

Eyelids slowly parted, soft long lashes wet with unshed tears. Though everything about him is colorless, _they_ were illuminated in different splashing hues.

And the possibility of someone spending a gregarious amount of money on _him_ , even as a cruel joke, was something he’d never had done.

Clark Kent is important enough to _someone_ even if it was only for laughter.

He held onto this curious feeling—the spark of _hope_ that ignited due to the possibility of someone genuinely admiring him— before letting out a heavy breath that seemed to release the tension from his body.

With the knowledge of a hard work-day ahead _and_ having to deal with an irate Lois, Clark approached the flowers in order to carefully finger through them. The petals were so soft that it tingled, tickling against his skin like a lover’s caress. Is that how it feels when someone lightly brushes their lips against skin?

He became lost in the sensation, ensuring his focus was on the petals sliding against him and blocking all else.

He stopped as he neared the middle. It was buried to the point that he would bypass it if he wasn’t subconsciously searching and it mirrored the other white roses that he nearly dismissed it.

A single white orchid was nestled within.

~*~*~*~

“You think I’m crazy.”

Clark’s voice is flat, narrowed gaze flickering dangerously at the man sitting before him. He ensured his voice didn’t carry in the quiet atmosphere, the upscale restaurant spotted with typical elitist self-important individuals with more finances then they knew what to do. Yet most didn’t want to help the failing educational system, social programs that benefited those who had no choice _but_ to live in pest-infested housing, or give opportunities so that those who had none would be able to make something of value from their lives instead of being cyclically forced to undo someone else’s.

 _Such an oppressive system that benefits the rich_. He thought, a sickening churn developing in his stomach. _But I’m getting off topic_.

He’d already had enough for his article about such matters though his Pilot ran out half-way through. The man who so graciously granted him an audience is one who, if he hadn’t intimately known, he would have thought to be no better than those now dining on thousand dollar lunches around him. Though the news reports speak nothing different, Clark knew better.

“No.” Bruce Wayne let a smug smile reach his lips, cerulean eyes shining. “I _know_ that.”

“What specifically do you find comical about my situation exactly?”

“All of it. Take your pick.” The deep bass is teasing. “Your response. The cheesy note. The small Ziploc bag between us with said cheesy note inside that you want me to dust for prints and run through my database as well as the FBI and CIA.”

Clark blushed and fidgeted, remembering the amused smirk on Bruce’s face when Clark fumbled out what he wanted him to do.

“I want to find whoever this is.” He countered, concealing the mixture of anguish and befuddlement. _I wish I could be like you, Clark_ seared his eyes from the small zip-lock bag he’d placed it in. "And give them a few choice words."

Bruce continued to count off. “The fact that you think someone _purposely_ put an orchid into your roses to annoy Lois. They would have to _know_ Lois in order to do that, though they seem to know you. Besides, I thought the only thing she was allergic to was common sense.”

“Laugh it up, Bruce.” Clark scowled as Bruce did, but had to chuckle eventually. He enjoyed the occasional spitfire Bruce when he wasn’t out pretending to be his façade. “I don’t know what’s so hilarious. You’re poking fun at a good friend of mine.”

“Well, she did make you throw away perfectly good flowers.”

“ _She_ didn’t make me.”

Bruce’s chuckle lessened as something dark flashed across his face. “ _You_ threw out the flowers?”

“I did get them out of the office for her.” Clark shrugged, mirthful countenance replaced by a dour one. Dwelling on the past day wasn’t pleasant for him. “Bruce, I might have a _stalker_. Have you been listening to me?”

“I just heard you tell me that you _wasted_ something when you don’t even like to throw away a perfectly good container to can peaches.” Bruce glowered deeply. “Not only that, you recycle.”

“Oh my Rao, Bruce, that’s not important.”

“The fact that you’ve done something out of the ordinary tells me that you’re disturbed…or unnerved. Keep in mind this individual is most likely human and not a _meta-human_. You’re more than a match for them, I’m sure, with your super-hearing and sight. ”

“Can we get off the subject of the flowers, please?” He sighed exasperated. “Not that it matters, but I didn’t throw them away. I took them home.”

Their waiter came by, a lean young woman well-versed in fine dining who respectfully asked if they would be enjoying dessert. She was probably working through college while Switzerland’s young adults enjoyed free college education through everyone paying taxes for it.

It frustrated Clark even more than his conversation with the illustrious billionaire. He now wanted nothing more than to get away from the horrid establishment—the inclusive club whose patrons were only the wealthy—and head back down to reality with his barely but cozily furnished apartment.

Unfortunately, Bruce ordered dessert for the both of them so now he had to suffer through it due to not wishing to be rude. He cast a glance at the laminated dessert menu, wondering how a hundred and twenty dollar apple a la mode would square off to Olive Garden’s eight dollar one.

The silence at the table grew as the waiter departed. Clark fiddled with his dessert fork then his pen. He fished in his left suit pocket for two undistinguished white pills, flushing them down as he finished his sparkling water. Now his mouth was dry and wondered if their waitress would bring him another glass.

“What were those?”

Clark willed himself not to tense, silently scolding himself for not using his speed to take them. He thought he’d covered himself rather well by pretending to cover his mouth with his palm before drinking.

“Tic tacs.” He shrugged, pretending to chew.

Setting the cup down, he sought out anything _but_ the man in front of him. The restaurant was suddenly too quiet and other diners joined in with their whispers. Though he could hear smacking and the sizzle of the food, the stillness made Bruce’s heartbeat even _louder_ , his breathing even more _pronounced_ , his intent gaze prickling on his skin as it trailed about his face.

When he finally made his way to him, he felt like a twisted mess with no hope to untangle, a jumble of confusion due to the emotions plaguing him, slowly eroding his _self_ from within. Why did he continuously seek out someone that made him feel _worse_ when he wanted to feel better?

“Consider the topic dropped.”

The warm voice is gone, now filled with tolerable coldness.

Unsure blues widened behind cheap plastic. “No, it doesn’t have to be—”

“Sure it does. It’s not important, Mr. Kent. You said so. I agree that it’s a waste of my time to talk about it since it’s very valuable.” He raised his watch hand, eyes downcast. 

He’d reverted to the condescending asshole everyone knew him to be. It was a sucker punch to the chest that nearly left him gasping.

“Don’t be like this, Bruce.”  Clark whispered painfully.

“I doubt you have any authority to tell _me_ what to do, Mr. Kent. And since when are we on a first-name basis?”

It is almost viciously said, as if Clark was no more than a nuisance. A behavioral reflection of plenty of the one percent.

“Stop it. Please.” His forearms braced against the table, fingers curled towards his palm. He breathed hard through his nose, pallor reddening with each exhale. His voice wavered, infused with fierce emotion.

“Nothing is keeping you here, Mr. Kent.” Bruce shrugged as he surveyed the other individuals in the room, clearly bored of their conversation. His own limbs rested comfortably on the red oaken dinner table. “I intend to have dessert. Your company is not necessary or welcome any longer due to the fact that you have enough for your article.”

“You have _no_ _idea_ what it’s like.” The caustic remark came out through gritted teeth.

Bruce raised a single eyebrow at his display though his eyes remained away from him.

“You’re _Bruce Wayne._ You have no troubles. You wouldn’t understand why I don’t want to talk about it—and why I haven’t.”

A bored sigh reached Clark’s ears. He took a few moments to gather himself rather than submit to the angry torrent of words on the tip of his tongue. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to say the next words, but it seemed necessary.

“I’m not scared. I need you to understand that. I’m not bothered by what’s happened if the person has good intentions. I _am_ by the possibility that they don’t. What if they’re actually making fun of me, of something about me that no one—not even _you—_ knows?”

Serious gray-blues unsettled Clark as they searched him, a frown growing as seconds passed. Finally, Bruce whispered so low that Clark had to strain to hear it. “Where is this low self-esteem coming from, Clark?”

“You wouldn’t understand, would you?” A sad smile sifted across a normally deceptively happy face. “You’re _you_. You can get _anyone_ you want.”

“And so can you, Clark. I’m not talking about you-know-who. I’m talking about the _real_ you. Clark Kent. The man in front of me now.”

If Bruce were anyone else, Clark would have shrugged it off with a joke to keep from speaking. But he couldn’t do that with him nor did he want to anymore. Raw unadulterated honesty poured out.

“No. I _can’t_.” He huffed out, leaning forward. “Want to know why I feel as if I have no self-worth? Wouldn’t you have yours lowered, Bruce, if year after year you had to be alone for Valentine’s Day? Or no one’s ever told you that you’re handsome for all of your thirty-two years besides your ma and pa?

“You’ve never gotten a date even though you’ve tried everything you could think of? Or a first kiss? If your hopes are consistently dashed with every attempt at having a love life? Or whenever someone touches you in a way that could be deemed inappropriate—even a hug—you become _stimulated_ because you _want_ someone to do that to you so much and mean it. You’ve _never_ had the chance though. _No one_ wants you.”

He couldn’t stop shooting off at the mouth and he didn’t want to. It felt _good_ to get this off his chest, to finally tell someone what had been slowly killing him inside…even if the person he told is the _last_ person he wanted to hear.

“How pathetic is it that my first romantic gift that I’ve gotten _were_ those roses from someone _I don’t even know_ who could be playing me? That’s why I took them home. I let myself think for a while that someone actually cares enough about me to buy me roses. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. Sad, isn’t it?

“What do you think about how I want to call an escort service every day, so that someone can pretend to love me for an hour? I wouldn’t know the first thing to do, honestly. I’ve watched porn and self-service, but I’m embarrassed the whole time. That hour’s going to be used up before I know it. And let’s not forget that my first time is going to be with someone who I don’t care about beyond the fact that they are living, happy, and have free-will. Great so far, huh?”

He let out a derisive snort, a self-deprecating smile trembling on his face. What he really wanted to do was fly to the Fortress of Solitude and lock himself away from the cruel realities he had to face each day. Or simply hide beneath his mother’s quilt within his apartment, the pain shedding away in the form of salty droplets. Instead, he looked out the large floor to ceiling windows that overlooked gloomy Gotham City. He propelled forward, speaking though he didn’t wish it.

“There’s a new professional cuddling service, you know that?” Clark’s voice is quiet. “Some stranger comes to your house and does nothing sexual at all. They just hold you in bed for whatever length of time you paid for and leave. I’ve used it. _Twice_. Thinking about it again tonight. Don’t worry. They can’t feel me when I’m excited. They hold _me_ , not the other way around. It’s not like they’d want me anyway.”

His eyes were wet and he struggled to not let them fall, lowering his gaze to study his fingers. The reflection of the one he could never have is too much for him. Those women that he bedded were lucky—even if they had him for _one_ night, they would have more of him than he could dream.

“What about the fact that I was browsing the Internet yesterday to get away with what I have to deal with _every day_. I came upon a term—not to mention plenty of sites—for people _just like me_. Involuntary celibates. People who want to be loved, but it’s just not in the cards for us as luck would have it. People who can’t seem to find someone and are frustrated and tired of being alone with no one to love or who wants to love them.”

Clark dreamt of Bruce in a myriad of ways, in all sorts of compromising positions. They were all amorous, touching, romantic…unattainable.

“Worst of all,” he choked out, managing to steady his voice enough to relay what bothered him most. “to find out that I’m hopelessly in love with someone and ha-she’s not likely to give me the time of day.”

He hoped Bruce didn’t see it. He had used his speed to swipe a rolling tear. More were on the brims, ready to run in slow rivulets along his cheeks.

What he did know was that he couldn’t see Bruce. He kept his sky-foam eyes trained on the lacquered floor, splaying his fingers before curling them into his palm.

Clark wasn’t going to look up. He didn’t want to see what many people would show to him: pity. His situation is stifling and depressing. _Pity_ only made it worse and offered no valuable solution.

“You have _no idea_ what it’s like.” He finished, voice fading halfway through.

Silence reigned and fear nearly caught hold of him. An irrational thought had seized him when he realized he could hear _no one_ speaking and wondered if he’d loudly exclaimed what depressed him. Then the ignolable scratches that he recognized as voices assaulted his ears.

Clark had focused so intensely on what perturbed him that everything fell away. After a few more minutes of quiet, he swallowed hard, trembling slightly while willing the waiter to return to their table so _something_ would be said.

He managed to get out another occupying thought. “Nothing? You’re not going to ask why I haven’t paid to be serviced or tell me to cry you a river like you did when I wanted to kill Darkseid? You’re not going to laugh and call me names like some self-designated alpha males online do who are anything _but_?”

Clark didn’t know what to expect and would have been irreparably damaged if Bruce’s façade answered. He didn’t think he could receive a response that would be any worse.

“She.”

His voice is bereft of any emotion except _calm_.

A flare of annoyance grabbed hold of Clark and it laced _his_. He had thought that Bruce would have more… _feeling_ to his situation, even though the man may be ill-equipped to deal with his own.

“Lois seems to think that it’s a woman.”

“And do you?”

 _We’re going to completely skip my heart-rendering confession, I guess_. The thought pounded in his head angrily, then seeped into his words.

“I. Don’t. Know.” He ground out, not seeing the importance of the gender in the grand scheme. “It seems _foolish_ to do it. It’s either a man or a woman, though a man is more likely.”

“How do you figure?”

“I don’t know.” He repeated, voice wavering as he breathed hard. It was a struggle not to scream.

“Is that what’s bothering you? That it _could_ be a man?”

Clark shook his head then. He recognized Bruce’s tactic of ‘helping’ him: gather every bit of information and logically set a course of action. It wouldn’t work.

“Emotions aren’t controlled like a chess board, Bruce.” He let out a mirthless chuckle, finally straightening up. It didn’t bother him that Bruce could see his wet eyes or that his face fell because of it, the fake persona rapidly dissipating in place of the genuine article who wished to say something…but couldn’t.

A hint of a sad smile showed. “This isn’t Battleship. I can’t blow them to oblivion like you. I wish I could be like that. It wouldn’t be so hard then.”

He gathered his deadened pen and note-pad with scribbles not of their discussion, but subconscious ramblings about the man he adored. Stuffing them into his suit pocket, he stood.

“And no. It wouldn’t bother me if it was a man. It’d probably be much less confusing. But that’s something we don’t know yet could possibly find out if you check for prints.”

Seeing their waiter headed their way, he murmured.

“I’m sorry, Bruce. I have to go. Thanks for lunch and helping me out.”

He noticed that Bruce didn’t try to stop him as he departed. He didn’t turn back to look at the _persona_ that drifted into place. He’d grown to hate it over the years as Bruce charmed the young woman for her number.


	3. Six Feet From The Edge

_**A few months later...** _

“Are you sure, Mr. Smith?” Viridian eyes widened with worry. “Is anything wrong?”

Mr. Smith. John Smith.

The name given to unidentified cadavers that loved ones hoped weren’t their missing person.

A bland boring name that no one would remember except that it is descriptive of unknown victims whose families cared for them still held out hope.

Nobody that could become somebody if someone found him.

He chose it for such a sentimental reason though the truth was hitting him sooner than he wanted: no one would find him.

No one wanted Mr. Nobody.

Clark nodded then shook his head in turn at the young man’s questions, the blond merely a few years younger than him. Half of his large body is hidden behind the doorway of his darkened apartment.

“I’m sure. And no, you were amazing as always, Ty. It’s just not helping me anymore.”

Sadness crept into the blond’s look as the edges of his lips tugged down. Ty probably thought that his professional cuddling didn’t stave off the loneliness that crept over him at night. He was right then, but not completely.

Clark wanted one last session. The feeling of another’s caress soothed the ache, but it had gotten to the point where he couldn’t be _touched_ without getting an erection. So he had to let Ty go within minutes of beginning their session which depressed him interminably.

Averting his eyes, he whispered, “Have a nice life, Ty. Five stars as always. I’m sure whoever gets you will be very lucky.” He shut the door then, flicking the lock with an air of finality.

No lights were on within his home. It currently matched his mood. He grew to like the impenetrable darkness since being harangued a couple of months ago.

Not by Lex Luthor.

Not by some impending world threat.

But by post-it notes in various colors, adoring messages scrawled on all of them. Wouldn’t it be nice to believe them though?

In darkness, Clark made his way into his bedroom, crawling into bed. He pawed for the control to his television in order to resume the movie that had been playing before Ty’s visit.  

His erection uncomfortably throbbed against his leg. Usually, he would work himself out. He would think of his ever-silent paramour, drumming up any man that he found attractive. But it would soon segue into Bruce.

He didn’t bother with it now. It would become flaccid in no time. Not to mention that it was something that he didn’t want to do with mere hours left.

_Think melancholic thoughts._

Like the fact that his right hand is the only company he kept now. He’d kept away from the League, his job, and _him_ due to the relentless barrage of tumultuous feelings within him before the void of emptiness embraced him.

Or how his appendage would be the only lover he ever would know.

Better yet, the fact that no one bothered to check up on him.

 _You’re worth more than one night_.

It breached his thoughts. That was on the case of the gifted Blu-Ray movie he watched. He just snorted and taped it to the collage he’d been making of the post-its.

It didn’t matter what he thought he was worth, he hadn’t even received _one_ night. Pretty messages only did so much. If this person liked them as much as they claimed, why didn’t they show their face?

And it didn’t matter that someone had broken into his apartment. Nothing was taken and the Illusive Wo/Man always covered their tracks. No prints. No sign of forced entry. Nothing on Bruce’s end either, not that it would have meant anything.

Bruce hadn’t kept him updated. Clark hadn’t sent him any more notes.

He glanced at the multiple messages hanging next to his television when a passionate love-scene came on. He still wasn’t sure if the Joker—the name he decided to call the demonstrable tormentor—was serious or not. It was evident due to some of the post-its being crumpled in a fit of anger while others held tear stains. All but the first came with a gift: his favorite food being ordered and delivered to his place, generous donations made in his name, a box of beautiful fountain pens that he treasured.

Many people would love such adulation being shown to them. But Clark was always plagued with doubt. The possibility of this being simply a catfish was too great. He’d been the unlucky recipient of those.

Clark had allowed himself to _hope_ before, enjoying each clever quip for a while. He’d been so joyful that he stopped partaking his Lexapro. Life was looking up. There was a reason to be happy. Everything was going his way. His  _happy pills_ weren't a necessity anymore.

Yet after months, each subsequent message dwindled his delight until it was replaced by despair. His thoughts delved into darker realms with each passing day, barely coping with the likely possibility that someone sought to tear him down. Perusing the messages daily tended to comfort him but now glaringly mocked him. He resumed ingesting the Lexapro, but it didn’t deter the troubling thoughts. It made him feel worse.

Various thoughts crept into his consciousness more often, the kind that should make any individual call a hotline immediately or seek his psychiatrist. Perhaps his dosage should have been upped or he should have been placed on Zoloft or Prozac. But those actions were done if the person wanted to live.

Clark didn’t.

Glazed eyes flicked to the ceiling. Clark had barely been surviving, but now he couldn’t drudge up enough feeling to _care_ if he got back on his feet. If cross-examined, he couldn’t describe in detail what the last League meeting he attended entailed. He’d been unnaturally quiet, unable to tune into what Batman explained to them. It vaguely amused him that while they were all speaking of ways to save lives, Superman planned on ending his own.

Irony at its finest.

No one noticed the change in Superman—lack of joyful countenance, dull ocean blues, silent contemplation—or that Superman hadn’t been at the last three get-togethers. His communicator rested on his bed in the Watchtower. He wondered if anyone found it yet.

Probably not.

Red-faced Perry White yelled at him due to the declining effort of his submitted articles. Clark couldn’t even paste a smile or offer a retort. He simply stared unseeing at the Editor In Chief which seemed to infuriate him more. So he threatened his job if he didn’t find something more interesting.

Clark didn’t come in the next day. Or the day after that. He wouldn’t need money where he was going. An existence of nothingness awaited him and though many would be frightened, it delighted him. He would soon be free of pain, sadness, anger…why would he choose to continue to suffer when he had the choice _not_ to?

Stories of Superman haven’t appeared in Metropolis. Lois, who usually interviewed him, didn't seem bothered in the slightest since she had other leads to follow. No one wondered about what happened to the being and why he didn’t stop a criminal drug lord in Metropolis instead of Batman or why Lois Lane attempted to bust Lex Luthor on another of his unsavory deals. It is as if he didn’t even exist.

And he didn’t. Just like Clark Kent.

A heaviness engulfed him. His eyes threatened to tear but he’d wept them all. They just stung horribly.

Clark didn’t want to deal with the bothersome emotions that would never go away. He didn’t want to face others who would question his whereabouts instead of trying to rid the pain nestled within him. He was tired of caring for everyone else and receiving none in return. No one cared for Superman. They pre-existed him, so a quiet exit wouldn’t be regarded.

Living is just too hard.

The first genuine smile crossed his face as his eyes slid to the clock on his night table, counting down to the moment of the irreversible action. It grew as it went to the lead box next to it.

Clark had settled on a room in the fortress that could be locked from outside by the Virtual Intelligence where he could bring a leaden box of Kryptonite and leave it open. Thanks to Selina Kyle—Cat Woman rather—the Kryptonite from Luthor’s labs is now in his clutches. Paying her all of his life savings—an admittedly meager amount—did not bother him. Of course, she lacked the knowledge that Clark Kent or Superman had approached her in the dark alleys of Gotham. He’d ensured that he looked like another ragtag sleazy underworld character.

A puff of air left his lips as the digital clock clicked another minute. Pain would rack him throughout his demise but the last vestiges of it would fade away as he embraced ever-loving peace. It’s all he wanted.

But first, those closest to him should know how he felt.

Clark turned on the lamp next to him, the room basking in a garish orange-yellow glow. He rummaged within his briefcase as he ironed out the last details of his life, all of his daily worry and tension drifting away. Imbued with a sense of calmness, he withdrew a couple of pieces of paper and his favorite pen—courtesy of his secret admirer—and began to write.

_Barry. You always made me laugh and I could forget my pain for a little while._

He chuckled as a fond memory drudged up of Barry on spiked coffee.

_Hal. The rows Bruce and you consistently got into always brought a smile to my face. Take care of him, will you?_

_Diana. I always enjoyed enlightening you about Man’s World. Your perspective is something new that I’ve always cherished. If you have any questions, you should address them to Bruce._

Their faces appeared as he wrote, fond recollections with a twinge of anguish attached.

_Shayera. I want you to know that I fought as hard as I could. This battle is more difficult than everything we’ve faced combined and I don’t have the strength to fight it anymore. There are some things that even Superman can’t overcome._

_J’onn. Your strength surpasses my physical one. I wish I could have confided what I felt. I wish I would have known you sooner. Your situation bares similarities to my own and yet you face it with unwavering courage. Never lose that._

A trilling ring caught his attention while a bright light flared to his right. He ignored it, hesitating to write the last words. Heart clenching, he compelled his fingers to scratch against the paper shakily.

_Bruce. I couldn’t forget you if I tried. You’re my best friend, the person I always turn to for help. The man who I am in love with. I’m not saying this to make you feel that my feelings for you drove me to the brink. I just wanted to tell you what I would never be able to say to your face._

He then focused on writing his mother a long love-filled letter. It was nigh impossible to keep the heartache and pain to a minimum—he wanted to unleash everything he felt to her. He toyed with the idea of calling her, beseeching her help for a two decade issue with no possible enjoyable conclusion.

But this would be her last correspondence from him and he wanted to assure her that he was happy with his decision. Clark wanted her to live her life with the knowledge that he was simply beyond help. She was also on her honeymoon and he didn’t want to mar it in anyway.

 _Midnight Sonata_ erupted and this time, Clark rolled over to his phone, hitting a button. A simple message glared at him.

GOT A PARTIAL PRINT. HAVE A HIT.

Perfect timing as always.

 

~*~*~*~

Clark arrived in the dark cave feeling ever so content. He didn’t wear his Superman barb, but merely a zipped up brown tweed jacket, simple black crew neck, faded jeans, and scuffed Adidas. The simple grey cube is tucked close to his chest as he settled on his feet to walk the rest of the way.

Clark doubted he’d be found at the Fortress and if he happened to be, he didn’t want anyone to suspect that someone trapped Superman. How long would it take for them to wonder what happened? He’d ‘died’ before, but everyone knew the circumstances around it. They would know little to nothing about it this time around.

Even so, Clark wanted everyone to know the truth. It would enlighten many people that even a super-powered being could be trapped in his own mind, succumbing to an insufferable existence. They would know that as people rushed about, ignorant of any life except their own, he’d only wanted someone to stop before him and ask him if he was okay. He felt like many individuals who exclaimed, after their survival of their attempt, that they wouldn't have jumped if a single person had reached out to him.

Millions of people dwelled in silent pain, cries of agony going unheard by those who didn’t care or those who saw the signs too little too late. After a life is snuffed out, _then_ people wanted to listen and mourn. But not until a death occurred, until something jarred them from their self-induced reverie to wake them up on the happenings beyond their individual bubbles of reality. After an amount of time, they would return to ignoring or perhaps suppressing the ugliness of the world about them which did nothing for the anguished screams of the depressed.

Another flame is soon to be extinguished and no one seemed to _get_ any of the signs or his whimpers of help. He’d tried to help himself and then seek it from others. He even managed to maintain his head _above_ the sand for years by deluding himself with falsities. That was until the first note appeared and demolished his faulty inner constructs while the following ensured that he would never be able to shore up his defenses again.

In respects to it, he would place his own post-it note the box that held the instrument of his demise. A simple reference to the individual who showed him that he’d been dwelling in delusion. It was a black one with a final testimony displayed in white.

_I was lost but never found._

The nocturnal winged menaces decorating the dank cave didn’t make a sound as his shoes slapped against hard stone. If he permitted himself to think on it, it was quieter than usual. The nipping air whistling from the entrance is all that he heard, but it did not sway him.

Clark didn’t really care who the person is now. Even with the knowledge, he’d smoothly lie to his best friend and perhaps formulate a plan that would never come to fruition. Wayne Manor would be his last stop before he left the world.

He desired to see Bruce one last time—he wanted the man to be the last person to ever see him alive. Clark wanted to perfectly memorize every detail etched on that rugged face: from the wizened clever eyes to the tip of his sharp nose while finishing with the strong triangular jaw. That way, it would be the final thoughts he’d linger on as he slipped away.

Bruce would ruminate on the last sight of Clark too. He would pummel himself into a pulpy mess, torturing thoughts assaulting him as he would think _how could I miss it_. Then he too would perform as the other billions—retreat into his shell, what he found comfortable and impenetrable unless he allowed another access.

The large bank of computers greeted him as he entered the cavern. Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, he tread over to the large executive chair, calling out a greeting that emulated the normally happy Clark Kent. He forced a common smile onto his face, having thought up many lies over the past few hours if Bruce decided to question him about any recent occurrences.

Why did he quit the Daily Planet? He felt like going in a new direction. Stagnation wouldn’t help Clark Kent or Superman. He’d been to a few interviews and thought the last was a sure job-offer. Guess he’d been wrong.

He’d missed a few League meetings? Clark Kent’s situation unfortunately required time away.  Superman would be there if any otherworldly oppressors threatened the world, but Clark needed to figure out how he’d be able to pay rent a few months from now. Dawdling was not an option.

The one he’d last attended showed a much different Superman than ever before? A flash of a dazzling smile that would sear someone blind with a sincere apology. Clark Kent isn’t rich and what happened bothered him to the point that he had been distracted.

Upturned lips currently in place didn’t falter as he heard nothing back from his greeting, eyes gliding along the screens. He couldn’t discern anything about his hidden paramour. All he saw as he reached the executive armchair were scenes of Gotham and the Watchtower with a few documents.

A hand held the back as he’d done countless times before in numerous situations. It hit him then that he would never do it again or see the extent of Bruce’s fortune when he furthered Gotham’s renovations or built a new weapon. Simple pleasures like a quiet hour in the Bat Cave or sharing drinks at the Watchtower would no longer exist. Parties when things got a little _too_ rowdy and the too few days when he felt that life was amazing. Treasured remembrances that he would ruminate as he breathed his last breaths.

It felt…freeing in a way. No burdening responsibilities, countless worries, or misplaced anger at the world’s populace. Just a fluttering that coursed through him as the tension eased out.

His smile melted into a genuine one. So this is how it felt to be at peace. This is what it meant to be happy.

“Bruce.” Clark simpered softly, relishing in what he had been denied for years, eyes drifting downward.

Time stilled for him then. His thoughts wiped away as did most, if not all, of his resolve. Shaky breaths expelled from his lips as he realized he’d held them in. What he saw he didn’t understand.

Something sounded and it would not be until later that Clark would find that _he_ had let out a strangled cry.

“ _Bruce_.”


	4. Necessary Deception

To say he had a problem was a monumental understatement.          

The water rushed over his head as he bobbed out every so often, gasping for breath seconds before being pulled down by the relentless draw of the current, drowning steadfastly in deep whirlpools that swirled with an abundance of emotions. His own hit him so hard and fast that he dizzied, a flurry of sensations that raced him towards the point of no return, intent on throwing him over.

Too bad that point had been years ago.

He grasped the balustrade behind him in a white knuckle grip, forcing himself to gaze at his beloved’s face. He’d heard him enter the master suite, cross the plush carpet unsteadily, and _felt_ his over-bearing presence before he even spoke.

“Bruce?”

A tortured tone drifted to him like a sour note on a violin. Still so melodic and beautiful, yet haunting.

“Bruce, what is this?”

He didn’t want to answer, but knew that he couldn’t flee. That was the point, wasn’t it?

Gentle fingers that could crush anything softly held the thin piece of paper he’d left. Shimmery sapphires that beheld the ability to roast flesh surveyed him. Clark Kent trembled with uncertainty, all revealed in his nervous motions—biting of his lower lip, increased respirations, ‘shielding’ himself by pulling his jacket closer around him in a subconscious act of protection.

His heart hammered in his chest. For the first time during the start of it all, he didn’t try to control himself or hide from him. How could he when there was no escape? He’d left it for him in the cave so that he would search and confront him. So that there _could be no escape_.

“It’s the truth.”

Crushed azures swelling with disbelief bore into him, a full mouth parting in anguish. A soft exhalation of air puffed out between adoring lips, nearly strong enough to uproot him. Or was he merely swooning like a love-sick fool at everything the one he loved did?

“Are you telling me…” Clark’s voice fell to the wayside, his mind certainly whirring at the _impossibility_ of it all. When he compelled himself to speak again, he sounded meeker. More timid. “You mean it was _you_ the whole time?”

Bruce didn’t expect to see _agony_ awash his eyes. It twisted something painful in him and a cold sense of dread began to rise. This reaction isn’t what he expected and certainly not what he wanted.

Clark was giving him an outlet that he could utilize. He could backpedal after a quick reassessment since Bruce had been _wrong_. Opening his mouth, he found himself abrasively cut off.

“You let me think all of those things about myself.” Roiling emotions encompassed the lovely blues that Bruce often daydreamed. The soft baritone trembled, revealing that he is slowly coming apart at the seams. “I _told_ you how I felt about it and you kept doing it.”

His heart skipped a few beats as he tensed visually, eyes widening. “Clark,” he murmured. “I would never-”

“Do you know how many times I cried at night, Bruce, _wanting_ someone to say all of those things to me?” Clark cut him off in a strangled tone, louder now. He glared at him through narrowed slits, anger readily apparent. “Why would you torture me like this? Why would you let this go on without saying at least _something_ that would let me know? Do you even know what I planned to do?!”

Without another word and eyes never leaving him, Clark unzipped and slipped out the unobscured bulge in his jacket. It slammed against the breakfast table between them, hard enough for a large crack to decorate the surface.

Evidence that Clark was slowly losing his control, his grip failing.

It took mere seconds for recognition to dawn upon him and Bruce knew what the container held without Clark having to utter anything else. The post-it message disturbed him the most though.

He finally allowed a bit of what he felt to seep into his voice: just a slight tremble.

“Clark.”

The effect on Clark was apparent as he could see that Clark was beginning to understand a bit of _Bruce’s_ situation. His flaming glare dulled to a soft simmer, but his heavy frown still held.

Though his hands are shoveled deep in pockets, Bruce wanted to cross the sun deck and take him in his arms. Brush his lips all over his face. Comfort him with his touches. Whisper to him the years of longing and needing he had buried for him. It was a compulsion almost—he felt himself swaying in his direction, ready to take the first step. He forced himself still…because that’s all he knew how to do.

He didn’t know how to love or how to express himself. This was his first foray into the unconquered area. He picked his words delicately, though his tone reverted to the tightly controlled emotionless individual that he was known. 

“I don’t know _how_ to convey my feelings, Clark. Not like you.”

The husky timbre barely wavered though the violent torment swirling within him nearly made him retch at what he’d nearly caused. He didn’t know how to show the man in front of him—impervious to everything _except_ mental disturbances—that Bruce didn’t show any emotions because he couldn’t. He didn’t know _how_ through actions or words unless…

“Every time you came to me, I tried to tell you but I’d be hindered in some way, usually due to my own actions. I realized that the only way I could was…to have you confront me. I wouldn’t have anywhere to run.”

He took a deep unsettling breath, ensuring that their sights are locked and remained that way. The thought that _he_ had nearly made Clark Kent—Superman for any Deity’s sakes—nearly end his life is something that pushed him near the brink himself.

“I am…very sorry, Clark.” Bruce didn’t _sound_ it. It came off monotonous, unfeeling, mechanic. But for _fuck’s_ sake, who wanted to feel like they were feverish, clammy, nauseous, heady and _worse_? He pushed on.

“For all of this. I didn’t mean to cause you any undue pain. I didn’t even—I wanted you to know how I feel…without knowing who it was that felt that way.”

He winced slightly, taking note of the cowardly act. Bruce also perceived that Clark cocked his head to the right to show that he listened intently and his eyes were momentarily clear of any disturbances. He was taking in the information, using his quick mind to work over Bruce’s words and match them to his physiological responses like the living lie detector he happened to be.

So beautiful…

“It was easier for me." He continued, attempting to infuse more emotion into his words. "It let me tell you all that I’ve wanted to tell you over the years. I didn’t think you’d take it as badly as you did and I didn’t know what to do after you told me. So I kept going, hoping that you would believe me one day and encouraging you to listen to them too.”

Dark locks trembled as Bruce gave a quick shake of his head, running his fingers against the fabric of his trousers to wipe off sweat. “I didn’t think about how it would affect you. Or at least I didn’t think that it would affect you as badly as _this_. When I did, I still cowardly hid myself while watching you slowly come apart, thinking that the more I sent, the more likely you’d believe me.

“I’m not good at this, Clark.” He admitted, trying to turn his lips up though it failed. “I can talk most anyone into bed. I can break down complex algorithms and make it so ten year olds can understand. I’ve stared down the face of Death a few times and charmed my way out. But this is the hardest conversation I’ve ever had. Partly because I don’t know the end result and partly because it deals with ‘the gaping black hole on the left side of my chest’ as Hal calls it.”

His quip didn’t take. A frigid wind ruffled their clothes as they surveyed each other in silence, basking in the unknown. Clark then offered gently, the frosty air carrying his voice to him. “I’m very pissed off, Bruce. You have _no_ idea.”

“You have every right to be.” He opened his mouth to say more, but his chest constricted then, cutting him off. A terrible pain bloomed at the thought he eventually expelled. A gentle rapping seemed to urge him on, wetness soaking through whenever it touched. But he couldn't find his voice.

“ _Of course I do_.” His voice held a razor sharp edge. “I don’t think you exactly _get_ what you’ve done to me. While you dined on lobster, caviar, and various women aged young to old, I’ve been _dying_ inside. I felt _trapped_. And when I came to you for help, when you had a chance to tell me everything which would have helped, you made me feel _worse_.”

At that, Bruce couldn’t hold his gaze any longer. It drifted to the cold cement slowly being assaulted with sudden raindrops from the weeping heavens.

“You didn’t mean to. You tried, in your way, to make me feel better. But I think—”Clark stopped then before taking a deep breath, running fingers through his hair with a hand on his hip. His voice dropped a few octaves when he resumed. “I think that was the beginning of the end for me. I couldn’t take it when I felt like I lost you and that you didn’t honestly care about what happened to me.”

“Clark.” His voice broke as his chest heaved. “I never meant—”

“I know, Bruce.” Clark sounded exhausted and drained.

They drifted into silence again, Bruce struggling with the strange sensation of holding tears back. He couldn’t focus on the man that he’d hurt interminably to the point that he would have taken his own life.

“I don’t—” He started before choking up, the thunderous roars above threatening to drown him out. Licking his lips, his throat dry and chest hurting, he began again. “I’m not asking for forgiveness, Clark. After what’s happened, I-I can’t say that I deserve it. So I understand if you don’t give it. I also understand if…if you’d never want to talk to me again.”

“I’m honestly thinking about it.” His focus drifted over to Gotham’s lightning scarred skyline, the rainfall quickening to a heavy pounding, aggressively impressing ontoBruce that their friendship and partnership is over.

Bruce raised his eyes, trying to catch Clark’s in order to plead what he knew he had no right to. Because he couldn’t lose him…not like this. Not ever.

He was the only one that knew Clark so intimately, truths about him that were entrusted to no one else. Like how Clark and punctuality was rare. And how a certain disorganization was considered _order_ in his world. How Clark suffered internally from imagined failings that he could not be faulted but would gleam brightly and snatch at any spark of hope with child-like enthusiasm. How deeply he wished to be loved and for it to be returned…and how badly he did _not_ know that Bruce wanted to be the one.

This couldn’t end…

Then his voice dipped lower. “Of course I have no intention of doing so. I wouldn’t be able to resist you anyway.”

A flare of hope licked his heart. Cautiously creeping about the possible minefield, he licked his lips. “Then what do we do?”

Uncertainty coated those deep pools. He breathed out “I don’t know.”

Bruce’s heart tugged him, just as he compelled his legs to move. It dawned on him that they both had what the other desired. Bruce wished to intone his affections more openly and Clark wanted someone who made love to him. Bruce had let the women he’d been with _think_ he’d done the latter, but he’d never loved any of them. Clark freely expressed _everything_ he wished, even when he had no desire. So he stood before the man that he’d wanted for so long, the only one who would complete him.

“Tell me what you want, Clark.”

They were so close, inches away. Bruce could read Clark completely. All he suffered and desired splayed rampantly in his eyes. A soft noncommittal sound akin to a _squeak_ tumbled forth.

It was then under a cloudy sky overlooking Gotham, a light drizzle soaking them as they stood on the veranda, that Bruce decided to be brave. He’d almost lost Clark _twice_ and he hadn’t known it. When next the sliver of moonlight illuminated his beautiful angelic face, Bruce brushed his lips against him.


	5. Peace and Tranquility

Clark shivered as he felt hard lips press against him. Heart racing uncontrollably, he tensed, not knowing what to do. As Bruce pulled away, he colored fiercely, throwing his eyes away from him in embarrassment. Arms slipped around his waist to which he began to meekly protest, backing away until he hit siding.

“Br-Bruce.” Bruce’s face was buried against his neck and it tickled, another tremor running through him. “I-I don’t know what to do.”

“I know.” Bruce held him close, peppering his neck with light kisses along the nape of his neck. “I’ll show you, Clark. But only if you’re ready.”

Dark eyes lifted to catch his. “And only if you want me.”

Clark isn’t sure about either, not after what had just happened, but he let Bruce touch his lips again.

His shirt sticking to his body loosened as the buttons slowly came undone. It isn’t by his own volition but by masterful hands that have dressed down many. He shivered as Bruce pressed his body against him, feeling his hardness rub against his own and when had _he_ become erect? Tiny licks tinged his lips, begging to slip in.

“Touch me, Clark.”

 _How_ he almost blurted, but he let out a quiet moan as Bruce slid their bodies against each other, grounding their hard-ons together. Blood rushed to his face at the lewd noise he gasped out so he quieted. He hesitated briefly before he clumsily fiddled with Bruce’s shirt buttons.

A quiet chuckle stopped him, filling him with embarrassment and despair. But no malice of any sort showed in Bruce’s eyes as he peered at him. A small smile showed.

“Take as much time as you need, Clark.” He muttered. “I don’t want to rush this with you.”

It took a bit longer for Clark to undo them. His fingers trembled badly, nervousness fluttering through him. Bruce kept moving his body against him, hands roaming his wet skin to tweak his nipples, mouth sliding along his neck to plant soft kisses, licks, or nips. He finally pushed the dress shirt off his shoulders and it fell lightly at their feet.

“You want to move inside?”

The low thunderous growl of the sky is no match for the heavy thrumming of his heart that beat in his ears. He stiffened then, wondering if how he felt was similar to being paralyzed with fear. What if he is a disappointment? Or Bruce found something unattractive about him? Did Bruce like vocal sounds in bed? Or worse: what if he didn’t like the noises he is sure to make?

These questions and more filled him, enough to make him nearly extricate himself from Bruce’s grasp. But he found himself held firm, gently being tucked inside the ornate room as the glass partition closed behind them.

“Stop thinking self-deprecating thoughts.”

Apprehension filled him as he awaited the glow of garish light to wash over the suite. His heart thundered and his breath came in short spurts while he tried to avoid Bruce. He couldn’t do this if the light was on. He wouldn’t be able to—

But the room remained basked in comfortable darkness though they could see each other where the moonlight lit a small portion. Somehow, Bruce _knew_ that it is too much, too soon for Clark to make-love in the light.

Because that’s what they were about to do: take it slow and easy, make it sensual and lasting.

Bruce graced his hands along his sides, each touch searing Clark with renewed pleasure, making his way to his shoulders to slide off his wet shirt. His breath hitched.

“Clark.” His tight voice flitted to him and his sight remained on his unmasked body. He touched him with something close to worship. The next words came out so quietly that Clark strained to hear. “You’re beautiful.”

His nipples are being twisted, pinched, pulled. A soft cry burst from him as the motions consistently grew harder causing him to grasp Bruce’s waist. Bruce then lifted his eyes to him, showing the truth and unwavering resolve of Batman. He repeated earnestly, “You’re so beautiful.”

He didn’t know if he should respond, but it felt right. He managed to get out “Not like you.”

The edges of his lips turned up as Bruce left no space between their bodies, their straining erections rubbing once more as their nipples brushed.

“Kiss me, Clark.”

It isn’t exactly an order, but it led Clark to realize that Bruce is guiding him along in a way, making him comfortable. So he leaned in, putting his lips on his mouth, content with getting off in their clothes. He was close to bursting anyway.

Soon Bruce tongued his lips and Clark didn’t hesitate to part his lips. When he felt the moist tongue slide in to twirl with his, the peppermint-scented breath mingle with his own, the rough day-old stubble scratch his clean-shaven face, he couldn’t help it. He came, crushing Bruce against his trembling body in response, gasping in his mouth as he rode out the waves of pleasure crashing through him.

“I’m sorry.” He eeked out, breaking away to hide his face in the crook of his neck. He was still shaking, intermittent jerks pushing him towards the body he held on tightly. “I’m so sorry, Bruce. I couldn’t—I’ve never—”

“It’s okay.” Fingers ran through his hair and up his back, not in a gesture of deprecating friendliness, but a caress of a lover. “You don’t need to apologize. You don’t know how it makes me feel to be the one to make you like this. And you don’t realize how sexy you are when you cum.”

Clark pulled away just enough to verify the truth in his face. He didn’t expect to see dark eyes flaming with desire,

Bruce moved back enough so Clark could see his full body, stepping out of his shoes on the way. The loosening of his belt accompanied the growing smirk on his face.

“I’d love to dress you down, Clark.” It came out in a quiet growl that sent shivers up his spine. The sound of a zipper reverberated in the room before his trousers dropped to pool at his feet. “But I think you would be more comfortable if I am naked too.”

Clark couldn’t keep from lingering on Bruce’s nicely sculpted physique. His eyes slowly trailed from his feet to the engorged cock between his thighs and he felt himself harden again.

“You’ve messed yourself, Clark.” Bruce is now touching him again, Clark feeling the easy pull of his belt as it unfastened.  “How about I help you get out of your stained clothes?”

He didn’t have a choice truly, not that he would have refused. It was just that seconds later his own trousers were being pushed past his ass to glide to his feet. He was stark naked in front of someone for the first time, feeling entirely exposed.

But Bruce calmed him with his soft kisses, first on his lips then drifting south. He bit at his jaw, pecked at his neck, trailing down to suck on his nipples, sinking lower until he nibbled on his along his inner thigh, his hands on Clark’s thighs all the while. Clark followed the sight, feeling heat on his cock now as Bruce slid his lips along it.

“Mmm. Big and gorgeous. Like the rest of you.” Their eyes caught as Bruce continued to whisper, his voice low so Clark would have to concentrate on him instead of his own discomfiting exposure.

And then he couldn’t think. His thoughts swept away as he felt the soft brush of Bruce’s tongue, mesmerized at the sight of lips gently wrapped around his mushroom tip, unable to breathe as intense heat engulfed his length.

He’d _dreamed_ of this, but he didn’t think it would ever happen.

Clark bit his lower lip as Bruce easily glided along him, tonguing his shaft, running a few licks along his head before swallowing him again. Hands disappeared from his thighs before he felt the gentle tugging of his sacs and the easy stroking of his cock. Soft gasps escaped when he felt the barest edges of teeth scrape across him, causing him to search for something to firmly grip before his legs buckled.

“Easy, Clark.” A soft laugh flitted into his ears. “We’re not even through yet.”

When did his respirations become hard and fast, as if he couldn’t take in enough oxygen? He tried in a failed attempt to blink back the bleariness in his eyes in order to focus on Bruce, realizing that his body shook with…anticipation? Excitement? _That_ particular warmth spread across his lower abdomen, tightness that told him that he neared the crux of this act which would leave him tingling all over and blinded for seconds afterwards.

He _always_ came hard.

Hazily, he caught the small quirk of amused lips accompanied with the lazy pulls of cock, normally frigid eyes lit up with dancing emotions, and his body still thrusting into the tight hold. He couldn’t will himself to stop, not even with his strength.

But why did _Bruce_ stop? Had he done something wrong? The questions formed in his mind but he couldn’t voice it. He only desired for Bruce’s mouth to be on him so he could revel in those sinfully delightful twirls of his tongue. Then Bruce slightly dropped his jaw, Clark easily sliding into him again. He trembled at the heavily erotic view of Bruce being assaulted by his cock, encouraging him simply by lugging his balls and jerking his own.

His hips hadn’t stopped their motions meanwhile and the singular fleeting thought he held is to simply thrust his himself into the tight wet hole. He threw his head back as he did just that, fingers gliding through softness, caressing anything he could reach, trying to imitate the similar titillating feelings that thrilled his cock.

It isn’t long before the coiling knots he felt intensified, throwing him past the brink. Seconds after, he pushed himself completely inside the blissful heat, clamping down on whatever he held while crying out, a gushing river of cum exploded out of him.

It continued to flow as his vision cleared in time to gaze at Bruce lovingly gulp a mouthful of cum that burst into him, pausing only to swallow once more. It ebbed when he slowly dragged himself out while heaving to catch the sight of his cock swathed in his cum and Bruce’s saliva.

“God, Clark.” Strange emotions filtered through Bruce while he licked his lips for stray droplets. They dissipated as fast as they appeared rendering Clark unable to decipher them. He ran his hands along his thighs, licking his lips before swiping Clark’s length to lap along his length. “That was amazing. _You_ are amazing. I’ve never tasted anything— _anyone—_ as good.”

Is it always so hard to _think_ when someone’s mind is thoroughly blown? He blinked numerously as he slowly registered Bruce’s words. He didn’t know how to feel about anything, honestly. So much changed since twenty minutes ago. He’d been ready to make the ultimate sacrifice and now he’s having multiple firsts in a single night. He didn’t know how much he could handle and he hoped the dubious look he held conveyed this to Bruce.

Eyes flicked up to hold his. “Do you even see yourself?”

It is a challenge, but Clark managed to drag his sight away from a thoroughly flushed Bruce to gaze at an unrecognizable figure in the mirror.

Black curls are out of place. Lips swelled due to passionate kisses. Love bites decorated various spots on his body. Glittering ceruleans are drenched with adoration hidden behind black wire-frames. Smooth skin glistened in the moonlight. If it had been anyone else, he would have called them beautiful…

His eyes widened marginally. He didn’t look _anything_ like himself. And he knew the reflection is himself grasping at Bruce, because Bruce kneeled before him, lapping at his cock in an effort to make him harden.

Something caught his attention. He quickly snatched his hands away from what happened to be Bruce’s shoulders. Ugly purplish smudges in the form of finger marks are forming on that broad back. He tore his eyes from them in horror to settle on their owner.

“Bruce.” The quiver in his voice told the other that perhaps this isn’t the wisest course of action after all. He isn’t focused. He could _harm_ his lover, a notion that never entered his mind until now. “Bruce, I—”

“Will never know how to control yourself if you don’t learn now.” He finished smoothly, unfazed by what Clark witnessed. “You didn’t hurt me, Clark. I would let you know if you do.”

“This shouldn’t happen.” Though it is unimaginably hard to do, he pulled away from Bruce’s grasp. He stepped from him further as the other slowly stood. Well-known negativities breached him instantly, almost comforting him due to their familiarity. “I could get lost in passion and I could hurt you. I wouldn’t forgive myself.”

“You know how to control yourself in other aspects of your life because you’ve had _practice_.” Bruce spoke softly, tone not chastising but soothing. Clark’s eyes told him that he is mere seconds away from using his powers to escape. “This is just another more enjoyable introduction to another horizon. With enough practice, we’ll be able to find the proper threshold, the perfect blend of gratification and pain.

“You’re just starting out, Clark.” He soothed as Clark’s eyes flew wide at the mention of _pain_. He took tentative steps towards him. “It’s part of the learning process just like most things in life. Trial and error. But you’ll never know what’s acceptable if you don’t _try_.”

Bruce now stood before him, the space between them almost non-existent. He firmly held his gaze, not touching.

“I could hurt you.” Clark mumbled after a few moments of silence, a lack-luster attempt of evasion though his eyes revealed that he did _not_ want to stop.

“That is always a possibility.” Bruce gently put their lips together, speaking against them. “But that doesn’t deter me from wanting to make love to you, Clark. And after what I’ve done to you, you deserve a little payback.”

Those words allowed Bruce to fondle, caress, adore him.

They enabled him to react to Bruce brushing his lips against him as he led him to the bed.

They calmed him when they both lied atop the rich silk, hands grazing every inch of the other’s skin, each part burning with inexplicable pleasure. A hand left him momentarily only to return seconds after.

They led him to grasp Bruce about the shoulders, intent on having him passionately kiss him, cocks rubbing sensually.

Contented sighs spilled from him as Bruce slid against him, slipping past Clark’s scrabbling clutches while nipping, licking, kissing. So Clark spread his legs wide for Bruce to sink between his spread legs, low enough to taste him.

Clark arched his back at the first tentative licks against his puckering rose, arm pillowed above his head. The tickling sensation felt strange, but not uncomfortable. Lying still with eyes fluttering close, he concentrated on Bruce’s emboldened kisses against him. He refused to bite back the delighted groans whenever his dragged his tongue across him or jutted it out to tease the rim. He didn’t know when he began to push himself against his mouth, fingers disappearing into ebony locks in an expression of wanting more.

Wet ones assisted Bruce’s lewd tongue now, burrowing inside of him while Bruce snaked in along with them. Drenched with lube that he hadn’t noticed Bruce retrieve, they scissored him deeply, opening him up for what is soon to come.

So this is how it felt. He never purchased any coital toys due to wanting whatever entered him to be flesh, not rubber or plastic. It felt _good_ , but…not enough.

He clamped down on the invading digits anyway, wanting to keep them inside because it felt so _empty_ otherwise. He regretted their withdrawal with slight whimpers, but gasped soon after, extremely grateful for their return. Every so often, Bruce brushed against a particularly sensitive cluster of nerves that caused Clark to stiffen and grit his teeth. His body worked with a mind of its own, chasing after his fingers to recapture that particular sensation. It eluded him, increasing his frustration and he cried out due to it.

When Bruce moved away in order to rise to his knees, a wanting sensation ran through him. He _missed_ his touches. “You taste good, Clark.”

He breathed hard, unable to formulate any type of response. Anymore stimulation would make him crazy, but he desired more. His wish is granted by way of fingers encircling his cock, bringing it flush against Bruce’s own, trailing along both of their lengths. Bruce held a small bottle, the contents being slathered onto their cocks. His hips moved of their own accord, rising to meet the hand that is gently tugging and twisting.

“Relax.”

Impossible. Not when Bruce looked the way he did. His skin shone a rosy hue even in the moonlight and his eyes shined with playful mischief. Clark had messed his hair in a way that only seemed to further add to his allure. The edges of his mouth turned up slightly…

It surprised them both when he caught his wrist, silently begging him to cover him. As Bruce rose to blanket him, Clark trembled in anticipation. He could _feel_ every slide of skin, brush of lips, scratch of fingertips, gasp of breath. When the head of his cock teased his kissed his puckering hole, he let out a sensuous groan.

“Breathe out slowly, Clark.” Bruce murmured against his lips, hands having trailed down to lift his legs. A gentle bite caused a shiver. “Try not to tense.”

It was…touching. Though Clark would assuredly not be damaged during any part of their sexual escapade, Bruce wanted to make it as pleasurable for him as possible.

Easing out his breathing, he willed himself to relax just as Bruce eased his hips forward. The slick head pressed against his resisting hole before his body relented to swallow it. Oceanic blues widened in amorous affection as Clark felt his body suckling Bruce’s cock, trying to engulf it whole.

It felt strange, slightly painful, but overwhelmingly pleasurable.

When he felt Bruce pull out, he threw an arm around his shoulders, burying his face against his neck. An embarrassing sound came from him in protest. Bruce simply chuckled.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Clark.” His breath in his ear tickled him to his very tips, curling his toes.

“I know, Bruce.” He gasped out. “But you won’t. _Please_. I need this…I need _you_.”

The next words tumbling out weren’t coherent, because Bruce seemed to break his control then. He pushed into Clark hard enough to rock the bed, the post smacking against the wall.

And it continued to rhythmically tap in time with his thrusts.

Indescribable.

As his virginity ebbed away with Bruce efficiently ridding him of it, Clark seemed to burst with a multitude of feelings at once.

His ass felt like it was being ripped apart by an engorged cock, but so satisfyingly full. His muscles clamped down for additional pleasure as he pushed against his lover, his hips reacting to the brutal onslaught in order to get more of Bruce. A sharp cry escaped when Bruce hit a very particular bundle of nerves. It felt so _good_ that he wanted Bruce to concentrate on that particular area. A hand slid down to grasp an ass cheek and squeeze, a sultry moan gasped out when Bruce fucked him there again.

And again.

And again.

Until Clark was an absolute mess, chasing after Bruce’s cock whenever it tried to escape, burying his face into the plush pillow when it returned. Nothing occupied his mind except to continue in this feel-good state, all the worries and stress non-existent as Bruce fucked him senseless.

Then Bruce blanketed him, covering his form to breathe adoring whispers of encouragement to him, stroking his cock with his stomach in the process. It didn’t stop no matter how many times their lips latched to taste each other: Bruce continued to lavish him love and it only served to invigorate Clark. So just as unabashedly, his lover’s name fell from him in breathless moans as he arched into him, tethering their bodies together by clutching Bruce. His sense of control was muddled to the point that he barely held together to keep from hurting Bruce…especially when he bit down on the nape of his neck.

But it wasn’t just that.

Every slide of their sweaty bodies, every kiss of their hard nipples, every sensuous prickle of contact singed Clark with loving satisfaction. Each in turn caused the familiar knot to build slowly. His body trembled, incoherent gasps spilling from him until his unfocused gaze whited out as he cried out in bliss. He came _harder_ than before, coating their bodies with his cum, panting with exertion.

He felt—so very deep inside of him—Bruce’s cock pulsing, still dragging along his muscles, pulling out a loving sigh that he didn’t think he had before burrowing in. A few more thrusts, each harder than the last, occurred before warm cream shot into him seemingly endless.

Clark’s vision returned in time to watch Bruce above him: face skyward with lids closed and jaw taut, body tense though a slight tremble was visible, balls squeezing tightly so that they could empty inside of him.

His heart stopped beating. He couldn’t swallow any air if he tried.

Never in his life did he think that _he_ would be the cause of someone’s affection, especially someone as enticing as his best friend.

He didn’t realize he’d reached up caress Bruce’s cheek until his sky blues flared open and focused on him, infused with lust and…something else.

He didn’t realize he’d spoken until the words were out of his mouth and hung in the air for a few moments.

“I love you.”

Clark blushed. It was certainly the thought he held but he hadn’t wanted to say it. Not yet anyway. A searing pain erupted when certain melancholic thoughts slithered into his mind.

That was until a small smirk appeared on the man above him as he leaned down to touch their lips together.

* * *

_**Six Months Later: Clark Kent's Apartment, Metropolis** _

“Clark.”

His life had come full circle almost. He marveled at the thought while straightening his tie, azures chancing a glance over at the differently colored notes. He'd come a long way since then.

“ _Clark_."

He was still taking his anti-depressants. He'd found a psychiatrist that suited him. And had one of the strongest support groups that anyone could have helping him along the way,

" _Clark._ We’re going to be late.”

Clark now smiled as he stared at the small note that had changed his life in a myriad of ways with depressing never ending dips to the occasional bursts of brightness. He noted the latter appeared more often though and Bruce was in every one of them.

That night had been the start of his first foray into a romantic relationship. True, they hadn’t been traditional—having sex first, admitting their feelings and then being asked out isn’t the usual order—but they were anything but conventional.

The morning after was even less so. A steady thrum of murmurs that grew into a loud raucous roused him to consciousness. Blinking sleep away from his eyes, confusion overtook him as he took in the scene of his fellow costumed League members and a gloriously naked Bruce Wayne hidden beneath a luxurious black robe.

It took a while to gather the necessary pieces of information but eventually Clark understood the severity of the situation.

Apparently, the League _had_ noticed his sullen mannerisms and had chosen the Earth day of his birth to celebrate with him. They had erroneously thought that his creeping age was what had made him sour. That was until they found the letter meant for each them when he passed on as they burst into his room to surprise him.

 _“What the hell is this?”_ Green Lantern demanded, teeth bared and temper barely checked, as he fiercely clenched a piece of paper in his fist. The heart-wrenching stares from crestfallen faces told him all he needed to know about what information the thin sheet held.

It had been unbelievably hard but Clark managed—with minimal stammering—to reveal to his closest friends the torment that his life had been since the appearance of colorful pieces of paper. In hushed tones, he described the taunting thoughts that dwelled, the inescapable feeling of being trapped with no escape but the ultimate, how he could speak to no one of the chaos that he felt, and the simple choice to pass into a realm that held no pain.

 _“Supes…I’m so sorry.”_ Flash murmured, casting soulful eyes onto the ground. _“I know I…I just wish I had known. I wish I had paid closer attention.”_

 _“It’s okay—”_ Clark had started but Wonder Woman cut him off.

 _“No. It’s not.”_ She whispered softly. “ _We all have burdens and pressures that should be relieved. The family that we are helps to do that._ _All that we can do now is ensure that this doesn’t happen again. It was much too close. I’m relieved that Bruce was able to thwart it.”_

 _“But what does this have to do with Bat—Bruce?”_ Hawkgirl intoned sorrowfully.

 _“I think I know.”_ Lantern’s voice shook with barely restrained animosity.

Nothing was said for a few moments. Clark had no intention of revealing Bruce’s part in his demise, but it was clear by J’onn’s disapproving expression and Lantern’s quivering frame that they knew.

It came out simply and as unfeeling as it sounded, but Clark knew different. It was in the small hitches of exhalation, the pain in his searing blues, and the hammering of his heart.

_“I was the cause.”_

No one expected Lantern’s fist to connect with his jaw. No one except perhaps Bruce who allowed it to happen. And Clark immediately understood it as his head snapped to the right, but slowly righted itself to coldly stare down a furious Lantern.

_“You only get one of those.”_

“Clark. Really?”

His cheeks colored as he shuddered at the voice, heart throbbing as he cast a look at his doorway to his dark-suited lover. Bruce leaned against it, ankles linked, arms crossed over his chest, the damnable half-smirk plastered on that beautiful visage. The first few buttons weren’t clasped, a teaser to what he would enjoy before the night was finished. It didn’t matter what Bruce wore…he always looked delicious.

Pushing off the door, he muttered “How long does it take to tie a tie?”

Clark stilled as Bruce finished affixing his tie. He let a small smile drift across his face. But before he could say anything, he was pulled down by his accessory into a crushing kiss.

His mind emptied as it did every time Bruce touched him. Clark’s hands settled on his waist, pulling him closer, rubbing his awakening cock against him. As soon as his lips parted, Clark darted in, tasting his sweet breath with a tinge of alcohol, smelling his musk laden with expensive soap and cologne. Curling his tongue around him, his arms slid around his waist, intent on siddling over to the bed in order to push him down and straddle him all night long.

When Bruce broke the kiss, Clark attempted to recapture his lips only to be met with a snort and soft chuckle. “We need to get going, Clark. Your mother is waiting.”

That broke him out of his reverie as he peered at Bruce with a modicum of mortification—which caused him to laugh—before snatching up his wallet from atop his dresser to follow him out.

But not before his eyes landed on the final post-it that reminded him of what all of his pain had been worth.

_You are my Superman._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that it took so long to get this out. I knew how I wanted it to end...I just needed to write it. Thanks so much for reading!! ^_^


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